


Make My Wish Come True

by lady_ragnell



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jack Didn't Go to Samwell, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Imaginary Boyfriends, M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9041576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/pseuds/lady_ragnell
Summary: Jack's parents really don't want him to be alone for Christmas, but accidentally making up a boyfriend to make them feel better was probably the wrong thing to do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes you just need some ridiculous fluff. Title is, of course, from "All I Want for Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey.

Jack doesn't mean to make up a boyfriend.

And, in all fairness, he's not really the one who made him up. But when Mama is worrying about him on the phone, asking if he's sure he doesn't want them to come to Providence for Christmas when he knows they just want a quiet holiday at home and that he can't really get away because the Falconers leaned a little on their unattached players to stay for a few charity events, he says “I'm fine, Maman, I'm not going to be alone.”

He means he's going to have his team, but her voice softens right away when she answers. “Honey, are you seeing someone?”

“I'm—why would you ask that?”

Apparently he sounds defensive more than confused, because she rushes to fill the silence. “You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but I just thought you might have told us if you had a girlfriend.” She clears her throat the way she always does before Kent comes up, and Jack winces. “Or a boyfriend.”

“I'm not—there's nothing like that.”

“Oh.”

Jack doesn't like disappointing people, and he especially doesn't like disappointing his mother, and later he'll blame that for the way that, without thinking it through, he blurts out “It's—it's new, Maman. I don't want to jinx it, or talk about it, or … anything.”

“But you're not going to be alone on the holiday?” she asks carefully.

“No.” He's having Tater over for a while in the afternoon, because Tater doesn't have the time to fly to Russia and they're the only two actually staying in town on the day who don't have families. So it's not a lie, even if it's not the way his mother means it.

“And you're happy?”

Jack is in the NHL, one of the league's high scorers, and if he sometimes feels awkward getting invitations to weddings from rookies years younger than he is, he can ignore it. “Of course I am.”

She sounds teary. “I hope you can tell me about him someday, Jack, but let him know that I'm very happy you're not on your own and I'll owe him some cookies or something if we ever meet.”

Jack feels the guilt at lying to his mother already stabbing him in the gut, but she sounds so happy. He can just tell her that he ended it with this nonexistent boyfriend in the new year and everything will go back to normal. “I'll mention it.”

*

“I hear you might be dating someone,” Papa says the next night, on Skype where Jack can't even make faces while they're talking, and in Quebecois so Jack knows he's serious.

He looks down at his lap instead. “It's not a big deal.” True. “I don't think it's going to last.”

“And why is that?” Papa frowns. “Is something wrong with—this person?”

“No, he's—none of it is him.” Jack tries to keep his face neutral and wants to curse at himself for using the pronoun and for not taking the easy excuse of suspecting that this nonexistent boyfriend might be after his money or his fame. “He doesn't want to be in the closet, and I'm not ready to be out.” It's a good excuse.

“But you like him enough to try anyway?”

And it seems Jack has backed himself into that corner. “I don't want to jinx anything.”

“You like him enough to try in the first place.” Jack doesn't know how to answer that. If he were anyone else, if he were out, he would deflect by saying that this nonexistent man asked _him_ out, but unless he wants his father to assume that it's another player in the league Jack can't say that. He stays quiet instead. “What's he like?” Papa finally asks.

“He's—good,” says Jack, and winces even knowing the camera is on him, because he knows that was inadequate. “He's nice. To me. Doesn't act like I'm famous.”

Papa's face softens, like that meant something to him. “I won't press, but if you ever want to tell your mother or me more about him, we'd be glad to hear about it. It's good to hear that you're with someone who's making you happy, even if it might not last.”

Jack changes the subject, and hopes that his father just thinks it's him being awkward about emotions.

*

It's hard to explain Shitty Knight.

When his mother asked, bemused, why he was talking about someone named _Shitty_ a year ago when they first met, Jack had just shrugged, because he had no idea how to answer that question. As far as he was concerned, a strange man with a mustache had just sat down across from him at a sandwich shop and started talking about the book Jack was reading, and somehow after an hour he'd decided they were good friends and Jack didn't even disagree with him.

These days, he and Shitty meet once a week when Jack doesn't have a roadie and Shitty complains about the entire institution of academia (he's writing a graduate thesis at Brown about constructions of masculinity in sports culture), his parents (who gave him a name so bad that his undergrad hockey teammates christened him “Shitty” and he adopted it wholeheartedly), and how rarely he gets to see his other friends, most of whom still seem to be at Samwell University, where Jack almost went himself years ago.

Jack doesn't often talk much, because it's relaxing to just be around Shitty, who congratulates him on goals and assists with near-pornographic language but otherwise doesn't seem to care that Jack is an NHL player and mostly seems to care about Jack's opinions on the articles he assigns him to read on a near-weekly basis. The lunch meeting after Jack makes up a boyfriend for his parents, though, Shitty stops in the middle of a monologue about his friend Lardo from Samwell talking about applying to do graduate work at RISD and squints at Jack. “Brah, something is up with you.”

Jack blinks. “What? Nothing is up with me.”

“Something is up. You have a stress wrinkle. I cannot stand the stress wrinkle on such a beautiful specimen of manhood. Come on, tell me, let Uncle Shitty make it better.”

“Do you think I'm lonely?” Jack blurts, and immediately ducks his head, because he cannot stop himself saying stupid things lately and it's going to get him in trouble. “That's not what I meant to ask. My parents were worried about me spending the holidays alone.”

“Brah, I would offer to bring you to my dad's place, but I don't want to inflict misery on you. Besides, you're meeting up with Mashkov, right?”

“I am. But they didn't seem to think that was enough.” He keeps talking to the table. “So I implied that maybe I'm dating someone.”

“Bro,” says Shitty in what sounds like horror.

“I know. And it's ...” Nobody in the sandwich shop they always meet in is paying attention to them. “Not a woman,” he mutters, because he still doesn't want to take the risk.

When he peeks up, Shitty is beaming. “Bro, if you want me to romance the fuck out of you on Skype, you just tell me.”

“I don't think my parents would buy that. And I told them we're probably breaking up soon.”

“Say no more. Nobody can break up this epic friendship, so they'd never believe it.” Shitty goes back to frowning, thoughtful. His personality is so big and effusive that sometimes Jack forgets how insightful and helpful he can be. “Not that I'm pressuring or anything, but I didn't know that was on the table.”

“It's not, really. That's why I regret making them think so. If I was dating someone like that, I'd want everyone to know, and I don't want to deal with the media. So I can't date someone like that.”

Shitty nods. “I feel you.” Some other day, Jack thinks he might push a little, but Shitty sometimes knows when not to press the sore spots. “Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you out, bro. I love you and accept you and will totally mack on you in front of your parents while wearing a clever disguise if you want.”

Jack tries out a laugh. It doesn't feel too fake. “Okay. I'll keep it in mind.”

Shitty's phone vibrates on the table, getting a text, and Shitty frowns at it when he looks. “Bits,” he says, which Jack doesn't understand at all. “He's stressing about graduating at the end of the year.”

“Friend from Samwell?” Jack guesses.

“Yeah, from the team. Makes pie like you wouldn't believe. Like, on a superpower level. He has ruined all other pie for me. I'm trying to talk him into coming down sometime when he's got a break from games to look for jobs, since it's cheaper here than in Boston. Or just to see a Falcs game. Poor kid's stressed out, he could use some hockey that he doesn't have to play.”

Jack asks a few prompting questions, lets Shitty ramble about Bits (or Bitty, as he seems to call him more reliably), who seems to boss around the whole team and did even before he was made captain, and who might be a wizard from the way Shitty talks about his baked goods, and who apparently sounds lonely now that a lot of his good friends have graduated, since he thinks of himself as in charge of the underclassmen instead of friends with them.

It's nice, hearing about someone else's problems, a reminder that Jack isn't the only one trying to figure out the world. That's probably why it sticks in his mind.

*

“You could tell us something about him,” Mama wheedles on the phone a few nights later, while Jack is cooking dinner and she's offering once again to cancel their plans and come to Providence over Christmas.

Jack should tell her that it was all a misunderstanding, or he should tell her that it doesn't matter, they're breaking up soon anyway. “He bakes pie,” he says instead.

“Professionally?” she asks, sounding bemused.

“No, as a hobby, he's—as a hobby,” he finishes firmly. “Though maybe professionally someday? He's still figuring that out.” That was too specific.

His mother knows how to press an advantage. “What's he doing right now?”

“Studying. He's a friend of Shitty's.” Jack is going to owe Shitty and his friend an apology if he ever has to explain this to one of them. Which he might, considering Shitty is talking about inviting Bitty down for the Falcs home game a week before Christmas.

“What does he study?”

“Mostly how to procrastinate by baking pie.” Mama actually laughs, which is a surprise. Jack doesn't generally think of himself as funny.

“I'm very glad you have someone around to make you pie, even if he's procrastinating.”

“It's not going to work out,” Jack says. That part of the story he can stick by. “He shouldn't have to hide the way I need him to, and he's still figuring his life out. He doesn't need to be thinking about an NHL schedule.”

“Oh, Jack,” she says, sounding sad, but she doesn't ask him any more questions.

*

After a day of debate with himself, Jack looks up highlight reels of Samwell hockey on the internet. It's not hard to find them. NCAA hockey has a decent following, and Samwell has made the Frozen Four a few times recently.

Bitty is Eric Bittle, number 15, and he's not a lead scorer. He misses out on chances to get the puck staying out of knots of people. But he's _fast_ , he can get a puck across the ice faster than anyone Jack has ever seen, which might have something to do with the figure skating Shitty mentioned, and he's smart. Jack can see why he's captain now.

In the quick interview Jack can find of him with his helmet off, he's got a big smile and a bright blush and a Southern accent drawing his words out, and Jack decides he's gone too far and closes out of the tab. And then, on further thought, out of his browser.

*

“You could at least tell us his name,” says Papa the next time they talk.

“I could not,” Jack says firmly. “I know you. You'll stalk him on Facebook or whatever. Twitter. I think he does that.”

“Can you blame us? This is the first time you've mentioned dating someone in years. He's got to be something special.”

“It's still new.” So new that it doesn't exist, actually.

“It's serious enough that you're spending Christmas together.”

Now that Jack is basing his fake boyfriend on someone who's actually real, he feels guilty about that. “He's not local. He thought for a while he couldn't go back to his parents' place and I said I was in the same boat so we made some plans. But his ...” Jack strikes out for an excuse. “His grandmother offered to buy him tickets home as a Christmas gift. He's not sure if he's taking her up on it or not.”

Papa sighs. “I know you don't want us worrying about you, or missing out on our plans, but are you sure you don't want to travel up to Montreal? It would be a short trip, but it's not like you can't afford it.”

“I know. But even if Bit—if he can't stay, I'm going to see Tater, and we'll talk over Skype, and I'll come up to see you when there aren't so many holiday charity events I'm involved in. Or that _you're_ involved in. I'm not a kid, Papa, I don't need to wake my parents up on Christmas morning.”

“We're your parents and we worry.”

Jack swallows, glad they're on the phone instead of Skype. He knows his face is giving him away. “Do you think I'm lonely? I have teammates. You know how important that is. And I have Shitty. And Georgia.”

“And you have your boyfriend.”

“Yeah. But even before that, I wasn't lonely, Papa.” He wonders if that's one of those sentences that always feels less true the more times you say it, if it reminds everyone who tries to say it of nights spent alone and stories from a day that no one ever got to hear.

“I'm just really glad you have someone, even if you can't be together on Christmas,” says Papa, so apparently it sounded like a lie out loud too.

*

“Aww, poor Bits,” says Shitty, looking at his phone again while Jack eats lunch. There's a new sandwich on the menu and he thinks he likes it. “He thought he was going home for Christmas but his parents won some kind of cruise and he told them to take it, since they only entered the contest since he said so. So he's saving the ticket money for spring break, even though his grandma said she could pay for him to stay with her.”

Jack was never one of those kids who thought he had superpowers or the Force or anything. He didn't actually see Star Wars until Snowy was horrified that he hadn't his rookie year. But he's suddenly very worried that he's psychic and never knew it. “What's he doing instead? Staying in the dorm?”

Shitty frowns. “I guess, yeah. Maybe I'll invite him to my dad's place.”

“You didn't even want _me_ to come to your dad's place.”

“Yeah, but Bits seems actually sad and you're being stoic, I'm picking my battles. I mean, he's got couches to crash on, he can go to Lards, and Rans and Holster are still in New England, plus the Haus stays open over break so he can just stay at Samwell, but I feel bad.”

“Why did he tell his parents to try to win the contest when he would be upset to be alone on Christmas?”

“I mean, who actually thinks they'll win a contest like that? But one of our old teammates, Johnson, called him up and was really insistent that it would be an amazing present for his parents for Christmas and that it would all work out fine. So maybe he's working for the sweepstakes?”

Jack feels some kind of weird responsibility for Bitty now, but having a complete stranger offer him a place to stay over the holiday wouldn't help. “You two should definitely come to the last home game before the break,” he says instead of making a really stupid offer. “I'll sign something for him.”

Shitty beams at him. “You're a good man, Jack Zimmermann. A stand-up guy. Bits is gonna be so excited about this. He'll be done with finals, and this will definitely count for a Christmas present.” He leans back in his chair. “One of these years I'm going to ditch my dad and invite you and Lardo and Bitty and the rest of my Samwell crew for Christmas. Screw my parents, right? And I think you guys would all get along.”

“That sounds nice,” says Jack, and even means it. “Maybe I could invite Tater along, or Snowy.”

“Sure, twist my arm so I spend more time with NHL players, I guess I'll survive.”

*

“Do you know whether your boyfriend is spending Christmas with you or not yet?” Mama asks when Jack is on the phone with both of his parents that night.

Jack freezes in a way that would be very suspicious if they were on Skype. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I need to know whether to send along a little something for him as well as you when I mail your gift,” she says, serene, and Jack squirms.

“He'd be so uncomfortable—he didn't get anything for you,” he tries, and switches to French. She understands a little less of it, but she's more willing to listen to it. “It's so new. I think he'd be stressed out. And his parents are sending gifts to him.”

“Does that mean he's coming, then?” Papa asks, indulging him switching languages.

“We're still not sure. He's coming to the last home game before the break, and I guess we'll think about things then. He's busy the next couple weeks, I don't think he wants to be figuring out a new relationship.”

Mama continues her hunt for information. “What's he busy with? Pies?”

“Hockey.” He's going to regret that, but it doesn't seem fair to his half-imaginary fake boyfriend to make him seem one-sided, and Jack seems to be committed to Bitty playing the role.

“Jack,” says his father, half laughing and half worried. “Of course he does. It's not Mashkov, is it?”

“Christ!” He can only imagine. “No, Papa, I promise he's not a teammate. NCAA. Senior. I'm not telling you what team.”

There's a pause while they both try to decide whether the age difference is enough to bother them, or exchange some kind of look about getting information or not getting enough information or one of a hundred other things. “Is he good on the ice?” Papa finally asks, in English again, ready to chirp him instead of talk for real, at least for a little while.

“Fastest thing you ever saw,” says Jack, and tries desperately to change the subject.

*

“I got you two seats in the friends and family section,” Jack tells Shitty on the phone, since he's on a roadie and they can't meet for lunch. “Are you and Bitty still free to come?”

“Wouldn't miss it, bro! Lardo's sad she's missing out, but Bitty's lording it over all the guys that he gets to meet my NHL friend before they do and he's already asked what your favorite kind of pie is.”

Jack is fairly sure he doesn't have a favorite flavor of pie. When he has sweets it's usually at a teammate's birthday, or a muffin from a local bakery. “What did you tell him?”

“That he's a magical pie elf who could probably make a fucking boysenberry pie and still make you cry with how good it is, but also that you are Canadian and maple always works.”

“I like boysenberry,” Jack says, as deadpan as he can.

Shitty barks out a laugh, and Jack grins at his phone, pleased. “You could go into stand-up, brah. I'll tell Bits maple is great. As if you fucking know what a boysenberry even tastes like.” Shitty pauses. Jack is fairly sure he's stoned. “I'm going to buy boysenberries. And ask Bits to make you a pie. Just because you said you like them.”

Jack laughs and talks for a few minutes before he has to hang up.

In the morning, he wakes up to a text from Shitty that says _Joke's on you, Bitty says, and I quote, that his Moo Maw's boysenberry pie will change your life if he can just get the boysenberries_.

It's odd, knowing that Shitty talks to Bitty about him the same way he talks to Jack about Bitty. Of course Bitty was aware of his existence—Shitty says he talks about Jack with his Samwell friends often, enough that Bitty is happy to come to a game that can't be his home team. But it's one thing being Shitty's famous friend and another thing getting messages about boysenberry pie because he joked about liking it.

_If he brings me boysenberry pie, I will pay him for the boysenberries_ , Jack texts back, and puts his phone away to concentrate on game day.

*

By the night of the last home game before Christmas, Jack's parents have managed to wring more information out of him about Bitty (that he and Shitty played together, which makes him very glad that he doesn't think he ever mentioned where Shitty went to college before grad school, and that he's from Georgia, which explains the drawl in the one video of him Jack watched before he felt too guilty to continue), but he feels confident that he can get through the holiday.

In the new year, he can say Bitty wants to be out, that all his more serious job prospects are away from Providence, he can say _anything_ and all of this will be over with.

“You've got a fan club tonight,” says George when he sees her on his way to the locker room, grinning at him like she knows something. She definitely doesn't know it. Jack's parents are the only people who know about his made-up boyfriend.

“A friend of mine and a friend of his. Do they have jerseys or something?”

She just winks and shoves him in the direction of the locker room.

Jack gets ready for the game with a sense of unease he tries his hardest to shake because it won't help him on the ice. He has his usual good-luck text from his mother and got his usual text about something unrelated earlier. Shitty has been texting him selfies with weird cat ears and things on them all day that he claims are downloaded from something called Snapchat and that he also claims are the only way to express his joy. Bitty is in the edge of one of them, laughing, and Jack makes sure not to linger on it.

Everything is normal, even if his imaginary boyfriend is attending his game.

Normally, Jack doesn't let himself look off the ice until a game is over. But he's curious about whatever George was smiling about, and to see Bitty in person. When he skates out, he scans the friends and family section until he sees Shitty, already standing and yelling, and someone shorter and blonder next to him, tugging on Shitty's arm and laughing.

And there, on Bitty's other side, Jack's parents.

Jack slides to a horrified stop on his way to the bench and only keeps going when Marty propels him, because his father caught his eye and is pointing very obviously to Bitty and Jack doesn't even have his phone on the bench to text him and tell him he's been lying, please don't harass his friend's friend. He does his best to look stern and shake his head instead, and knows someone caught all that on camera and he's going to have explaining to do during press about why he was clearly so unhappy to see his father.

He's off for the first period and knows it, grits his teeth during the first break and grabs his phone out of his cubby even if it messes with his routine to text Papa _Please please leave him alone I'll explain later but you're probably confusing him_ before he gets his head on straight and concentrates in the game.

He gets a goal and an assist in the second and a goal in the third and they win by one in regulation, so Jack doesn't let himself feel too guilty for not having his attention on the game.

George is merciful and only makes him do a few minutes of press before she sends him out to say hello to his father, though she takes him aside to whisper “Is everything okay? You didn't look too happy, and I thought it would be a happy surprise.”

“Fine. I just thought I wouldn't see him until the new year, that's all.”

She doesn't look like she believes him, but she shoves him off to his parents and Shitty and Bitty anyway.

They've all got security passes, and they're in a group, all of them looking uncomfortable, and Jack is left with the question of what to do about the situation when they all turn to him as he approaches. The thought of telling all four of them at once what he did makes him want to jump in his car and go home and not come out until the next game. He wants to take Shitty aside and explain and beg him for help, but that reminds him of the stupid logic problem from when he was a kid, with the fox and the goose and the grain. His parents would eat Bitty alive.

He could take Bitty aside and explain and beg his forgiveness before explaining to everyone, but then Shitty would say something to his parents.

Jack sighs. He'll get the worst part of this night over with. “Hi, Shitty. Hi, Bitty. I'll be with you guys in a minute.” He switches to French. “Mama, Papa, could I speak to you?”

They exchange a look, but they follow him. “We realized we couldn't see you for Christmas, but we could make your game,” Papa starts, conciliatory.

Jack interrupts him, and he knows his cheeks are red and knows it's going to come out too harsh, but he starts talking anyway. “I told you it was new, didn't I? And that it's probably not going to last? What part of that made you think I wanted you to meet him?”

“You like him, Jack. We were trying to give you a push, and we went about it the wrong way but we're glad to meet him. He's lovely.” Mama puts her hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs it off. “I don't know if he's lovely, Mama, because I have never met him.” Both of them stare at him, and Shitty and Bitty are both standing awkwardly and trying not to look nearby, so Jack is very glad they're not doing this in English. “I don't have a boyfriend, you were worried about me and assumed when I said something and I didn't want to make you sad and say you were wrong. So I just used the friend my friend was telling me about.”

Now both of them look stricken and he knows he's going to have to apologize for the lying, but right now, he's not sorry, because they push and they push and tonight they probably freaked Bitty out when Jack was actually looking forward to meeting him. He doesn't look forward to meeting many people. “You could have told us to stop pushing.”

“I was just ...” He deflates a little. “You were so happy when you thought I was dating someone. I thought you'd never find out and you could just be happy for me.”

“Oh, baby.” His mother hugs him. Jack can't bring himself to hug back, but he doesn't tense up either. “Of course we want you to be happy, but you shouldn't have to lie to us.”

“What do you want us to do?” Papa asks. “We probably scared the poor kid.”

Jack closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and backs away from his mother. “Did you ask him about dating me?”

“No, we were in public,” Mama assures him, and he relaxes a little bit. “But we were interested enough to confuse him, I think.”

“Maybe just go back to my place? The guest bed is made up, I'm going to spend some time with the other two and see if I can explain what happened.”

“We got a hotel room,” says Papa. “We'll get out of your space. Do breakfast in the morning?”

“Okay. We can do that.” Jack can get over his anger in a night. Especially when he reminds himself that the only person he really needs to be angry with is himself.

Mama kisses his cheek and Papa congratulates him on his win and they both wave awkwardly to Shitty and Bitty before heading out, no doubt to get caught by the press and let Jack get away clean.

Jack puts his hands in his pockets and goes over to the other two, who have stopped pretending to have their own conversation and are now just waiting for him to explain any of what just happened. “Sorry about that.” He does his best to smile. “They surprised me, and I don't do well with surprises.”

“You're fine, bro,” says Shitty, elbowing him. “Especially since you scored _two_ goals for me. If you told them I'm your good luck charm, would I get season tickets?”

“Sorry,” Jack says again, softer this time, and to Bitty. “That wasn't a good first impression. And sorry about my parents. I'll explain that if you want.”

“Two goals is a good impression, I'd say.” His voice is a lot softer than Jack was expecting, the twang smoothed out of it like Jack smooths out his accent when he's talking to the press. For a second, it's awkward, and then he smiles, and it's bright enough to make Jack blink. “I made you boysenberry pie with maple in the crust. Just because you seemed skeptical.”

“And he hasn't let me try any,” says Shitty, aggrieved. “So whose house are we going to in order to eat this whole pie?”

Shitty lives with two other graduate students in a dingy apartment. Bitty lives at Samwell. Jack takes a breath. “Mine. You remember how to get there, right, Shits? I'd offer to drive you over to save the traffic, but then we'd have to find you an Uber later.”

“Jack's a morning person,” Shitty says to Bitty, who's starting to look a bit less nervous. “He's going to start yawning on us ten minutes in.”

“I don't want to intrude if you need to sleep,” says Bitty. “I'm just a friend of a friend, you don't need to—”

“I'll see you at my house,” says Jack.

“Okay.” Bitty takes a deep breath and then seems to decide against saying whatever he was going to say. “Okay,” he repeats, and Shitty talks all of them to the door and to the parking lot, analyzing the game so all Jack or Bitty has to do is nod.

*

Jack feels calmer by the time he gets to his house, especially when he arrives and he's the first one there. Probably because he parked much closer to the rink than Shitty could. He's in control of the situation now. His parents are at a hotel and Jack can find some way to explain the story that makes it seem funny instead of pathetic, and they'll eat pie, and it will be fine.

By the time Shitty and Bitty arrive, Jack has a six-pack of beer pulled out of his fridge and plates and forks for the pie.

Bitty comes in with a cooler and, when Jack tries to take it from him, clutches it to his chest. “I can put it on the table,” Jack says, confused.

“You can _not_.” Bitty looks scandalized. “I have to warm it up. If you're going to taste this pie you're going to taste it right.”

“Right.” Jack looks at Shitty, but he's just grinning and getting his coat off. “Well, the kitchen is through there. I can still hold that while you take your coat off.”

“Okay.” Jack takes the cooler and stands there, awkward, while Bitty (it's impossible to think of him as anything else) gets out of more layers than he really should need to, considering it's a warm night for December, hopping out of his boots after frowning at Jack's wood floor. “Your parents were friendly,” he says when he finally takes the cooler back.

“That's … yes. They would be.” Jack winces.

Shitty is looking suspicious, but he slings an arm around Bitty's shoulders, knocking him off-balance since he's still keeping a cooler steady. “Bro, you are going to get a boner when you see Jack's kitchen. I should have prepared you, but there's no preparing for this. You're just going to have to deal with your blue balls.”

“It's just a kitchen,” says Jack, a little confused, but judging by the little noise Bitty makes when the oven comes in view, Shitty is closer to right. “You can warm the pie up if you want, though. Have a beer.”

The pie comes out of the cooler, looking like a pie in a movie, and Bitty smiles at them. “I thought about making maple whipped cream, but it doesn't travel well. So you're just getting the pie.”

“Means I can taste the boysenberries,” says Jack.

Shitty laughs and drags him to his own kitchen table, handing him a beer while Bitty fusses with the oven and, from what Jack can tell, strokes it a little. “You didn't tell us your parents were coming! You should have invited them. Bad Bob can party.”

“It was a surprise. I'm going to have breakfast in the morning. I'm sorry if they were … awkward.”

“They seemed happy to meet Bits,” Shitty prompts.

Jack still hasn't found a way to make this a funny story, but Bitty has put the pie in the oven and is standing in his kitchen watching him now, and they deserve an explanation for this. “Funny story,” he says, in the vague hope that saying it will make it true. “Shitty, you know how my parents thought I was dating someone?”

“They know me, though—aw, man, did they think it was Bits? Bits would be the best boyfriend.”

“They did. I didn't know they were coming to the game and I was keeping the story up until after Christmas, and ...” Jack maybe doesn't have to tell them this, but they deserve to know. “Shitty had been talking about you, Bitty. I had those details on my mind. Pie, skating, southern. So the descriptions matched up. I'm very sorry, it was just all I could think of to do.”

Bitty has just been staring at him, openmouthed, but when Jack trails off into misery, he jumps into speaking before Shitty can get a word in edgewise. “Me? Well, I'm honored you even thought to do that. And a little confused, maybe. I'm just sorry I probably gave the game away to your parents!”

“You don't need to be sorry,” says Jack. “I shouldn't have done it.”

“Well.” That's a little too bright, and Jack looks helplessly at Shitty, but he's just watching the two of them, because he's a believer in letting people talk out their problems. “I'm sure they were surprised when I turned out to be a man. I'm sorry if it means they … assume things.”

“I referred to him—you—as my boyfriend. They weren't surprised by that. Just surprised when you didn't know why they were talking to you.” Bitty's eyes widen, and Jack keeps talking. “I told them, though. You don't have to worry about it. Were they pushy?”

“No, just, um. Curious, I guess.”

Jack can only imagine. It's over now, but his face is still burning just thinking about it, and Bitty is so nice, and so confused, and Jack just had to come out to a total stranger because he dug himself a hole just to make his parents happy. He stands up. “Make yourselves at home. I have to go take care of something.”

Shitty, at least, knows that sometimes Jack needs to have a few minutes to himself when he's overwhelmed. He'll explain things to Bitty, make sure he's not offended or upset. Jack escapes to his bedroom and takes a few breaths, concentrates on the good things tonight, on his goals and getting to try boysenberry pie.

When there's a knock on the door, Jack opens it, expecting to have Shitty standing there ready to hear an apology and give him a hug and make this easier. Instead, Bitty is standing there, with a piece of pie on a plate held out in front of them. “It's warm,” he says unnecessarily.

“Oh. You could have just yelled.”

“I could not have, Mr. Zimmermann!”

Jack frowns. “You don't have to call me that.”

“I was—never mind. Eat your pie.” Jack takes it, still standing on the threshold of his bedroom, and picks up his fork to take a bite.

Jack doesn't know much about pie. His parents never made it for him when he was a kid, and when he orders dessert or something at a bakery, usually it's something else. But this looks like a pie in a movie, the crust perfect in the way things can only get perfect through long hours of practice. Bitty makes pies like he skates, apparently, and Jack keeps that in mind while he takes a bite.

And then another bite.

“This is good,” he says through the third, and somehow he and Bitty are still making eye contact. Bitty's stopped looking nervous and started looking smug.

“I said my Moo Maw's boysenberry pie was amazing, didn't I?”

“It isn't hers, it's yours.”

“Bits, have you been invited into the sanctum sanctorum of the best hockey player Providence has ever seen, or are you doing a puppy dog impression in the hallway?” Shitty yells from the kitchen, and to Jack's surprise, both of them start a little.

“Shut up, I'm eating,” Jack calls.

“Oh, shit,” says Shitty, and there's a scramble, and a few seconds later he's coming down the hall with two plates full of pie. “Are we eating in the bedroom?”

Jack starts laughing through his denial, and somehow all of them end up on his duvet, dropping crumbs on it and Shitty flinging a whole bite of berry filling onto it when he gestures in the middle of telling a story. “I'm going to have to sleep in my own guest room tonight,” Jack complains, but his heart isn't in it. This is the best night he's had in a while.

Shitty beams at him like he knew that. “I knew you two would get along. Should have brought you to a game a year ago, Bits.” He stretches out. “Going to take a piss, don't eat the rest of my pie.”

“It's my pie,” Jack calls after him, and then he and Bitty sit in comfortable silence for a minute. “I'm sorry again,” he finally says. “About my parents, and about using you to lie to them.”

“If I'd known, I would have tried to pretend. I know what it's like to have parents worrying.”

Jack takes a bite of Shitty's pie, because his plate is empty and he's too tired from the game to get up and get more of his own. “Shitty tells me you're on your own for the holiday.”

Bitty deflates. “My parents are on a cruise. So I'm staying at the Haus. My teammates won't be gone for very long, anyway, we're still in the middle of the season.”

“If you ...” Jack isn't good at being spontaneous. But he likes Bitty. “I told my parents you were spending the holiday here. You could. If you want. Not—not as a fake boyfriend. Just so you don't have to be alone and you don't have to meet Shitty's dad if you don't want to.”

“I couldn't possibly impose.”

“You aren't imposing. You could bake in my kitchen.” Jack looks down at his sheets. “But if you don't want to spend Christmas with a stranger, that's fine.”

“You're not a stranger, are you?” Jack dares to look up. Bitty is smiling again. “You're my imaginary boyfriend.”

“Lord, I'm sure you could dream up better than me, Jack Zimmermann.”

“If I could have, I would have, Eric Bittle.” Jack stops, considers. “It's weird using your name. Shitty never does.”

Bitty laughs. “Hockey, you know?”

“I know. Well. Shitty told me about you and I picked you.”

“Well. Maybe I'll come down some day. Bake a pie.”

“Just give me a call. I'll get you from the train station.”

“I don't have your number, now do I?”

This is fast. It's fast, and a lot, and none of the excuses that Jack came up with for his parents when Bitty was a convenient piece of imagination are less true now. Bitty still has a future to figure out. Jack still can't imagine being out without his breath coming short. But Bitty made him boysenberry pie before he ever met him, and he's fast on the ice, and he's got a smile that makes Jack smile back. Jack looks up, and Shitty is standing at his bedroom door, smiling at them, not interrupting or making himself obvious, just keeping an eye on things.

“Maybe,” says Jack, “we can do something about that.”

*

“How did things go last night?” Papa asks the next morning at breakfast, sounding cautious in a way he hasn't for a while.

“Well.” Jack smiles. “I had boysenberry pie. Bitty made some.”

“He mentioned,” says Mama. “And we didn't … make things awkward.”

“I made things awkward. But they're better now.” He switches languages and mumbles the rest of it at his plate. “And I might not be completely alone for the holiday after all.”

When he looks up, his parents both look surprised, and tentative, and happy. He hopes they settle on the last one. He certainly is, this morning.

“I'm glad to hear it, darling,” says Mama. “Maybe we'll get to meet him again sometime. More officially.”

Jack has a new number in his phone and Shitty has been chirping him by text all night while Jack was sleeping, and there's about a third of a boysenberry pie sitting in his fridge waiting for him to want a snack. “Maybe you will.”

*

Christmas Eve, Jack waits at the train station with his hands in his pockets, cap pulled down in hopes that nobody will recognize him.

Bitty comes off the train with a duffel bag in one hand and a cooler in the other. “You're getting pie for Christmas,” Bitty says immediately, and puts the duffel bag in Jack's hands. Apparently he can't be trusted with the baked goods.

“What flavor this time? Car's this way,” says Jack, and starts walking out of the station.

“You'll just have to see, won't you?” says Bitty, catching up and smiling up at him, warmer and better than anything Jack would have imagined or made up.

Maybe he doesn't have his parents around, but it's going to be a good holiday anyway. "I guess I will."


End file.
